The NDubz Gate...

You know when you're walking through Chav'll Thieve Gardens and you come across the abandoned detrius of unwanted rubbish?

Such as an invalided relative who's been dumped in the park coz they're too much hassle and making you pay too much Council Tax.

Which is stupid, coz chucking out your wheelchair bound Davros means their bedroom's now available, and you have to pay millions in Bedroom Tax.

But depositing the disabled in the wintery climes of the sunny park is a bit too far to walk, so you just leave them in the entrance walkway. Half way down. Facing the low stone wall.

Still, better than the pair of dumbass bitches who wandered over to Chav'll Thieve Gardens, then stood in the entrance gateway with a bike held across the opening like a gate, blocking all ingress & egress. 

Grrrr.

But all that depressive gormstery was blown from the mind, on leaving the park and seeing a Johnny Depp lookylikey opposite waiting to cross!

You know, one of them blokes who's friend has mentioned in passing "oooh, you look ever so slightly like Johnny Depp!" and they go all out to mimic the facial furniture and attire.

Which sorta fails when they are a diminutive 4ft 6in high.

Wearing a Dappy-Out-Of-NDubz hat like a twat. A twat like Dappy in that twatty hat, but trying to flaunt the Depp 'look' underneath. Imagine, Cap'n Jack Sparrow with his bandana replaced by that fucking wooly hat with the dangly furry bollocks.

Johnny Depp? Johnny Dappy, more like!

The Fetish Prince Of Bell-End...

This is the modern US adaptation of "Jack The Ripper Street", starring Willy Smith as the young Prince Albert (with the Frankensteinian bolt through his helmet) tearing his syphillic way through the crack whores of the Bell-End borough of LA instead of the West-End of Londinium.

or something.

Open up (make food for me)...

No blog today.

I've been ill, getting iller, all week, so ended up missing Hazel o'Connor and (Pre)Hallowe'en Wraith last night. Still sick today, so can't be arsed typing up bloggeries.

What I would have spent ages on, is the current conundrum¹ doing the rounds on FarceBurke:

It's 3:00 am, the doorbell rings and you wake up. Unexpected visitors, it's your parents and they are there for breakfast. All you have is strawberry jam, honey, wine, bread and cheese. What is the first thing you open?

I would have pointed out that the obvious answer is, of course, Your Eyes. But that may not be the case.

The I would have gone in to very long, beleagured, waffling rant, of how it depends on circumstances and personality. Some people don't open their eyes first - they keep them shut until they've opened the curtains, or put a light on (which may require opening a door first).

I would then linger on whether throwing back sheets classed as opening the bed.

Furthermore, I would argue that the eyes are already open, and they have (a) identified the time as 3am (b) identified that the unexpected visitors are the parents, and (c) gathered the information that they require a 3am feeding.

I would have gone as far as to suggest that perhaps you were out clubbing, and awoke in the back garden collapsed in a hedge, and on hearing the doorbell, the first act would be to open your flies to water the plants before opening your bleary eyes.

I could have gone on, and pointed out that the first thing opened was the door to an argument, as the couples argue in bed over who's going to get up and see who's calling at this ungodly hour. 

Heck, perhaps you've already had an argument, and you're kipping on the sofa, and the buzzing bell is the final straw, and the first thing you open in a can of whoopass on whoever angers you further by visiting at 3am.

Not only that, I could posit the theory that you may reach out and open your flip phone to get some luminescence before opening your eyes - or even calling the cops to deal with bell ringers in the early hours.

In fact, if your girlfriend was the Crispello chocolate trollop and your parents came calling early hours, why, the first thing open would be her legs, so your dad can parallel park smooth like butter right up her poonani.

I would rabbit on and on, with many another diverse argument against the "correct" answer being "your eyes"...

...but I'm too sickly, so shalln't!

oh, the correct answer is actually "your mouth" to yawn/breath/speak, so ner!

¹ ACTUALLY, WHY IS THE CUNTDOWN CONUNDRUM CALLED THE CUNTDOWN CONUNDRUM? IT'S CLEARLY AN ANAGRAM AND NOT A CONUNDRUM. SOME PEOPLE, EH!

Lucy roasts in fires with dæmons...

You know that there Hell?

It's full of big ole meanie pants, all abusing each other.

And lording over the red hot pitchfork anal probes is Ole Lightbringer himself - Lucifer Morningstar.

Now, that miseryarse Yahweh cast him down into ye pitte for all eternitye for raising an arab spring up in Paradise, and it got me wondering.

Being King Of Inferni isn't much of a punishment - what, being crownded King? Lord of your domain to do as thou wilt?

Doesn't sound that 'orrible to me.

But then, I though more on it. After all, Ole Cloven-hoof (on which strumpet slappers destined for red-hot poker plugged poontang base their Primarché legwear to show off their deadly sin of Lust crotchables) was an Angel, so perhaps his punishment is more annoying and upsetting.

I reckon everytime there's a meeting Down Below, Lucifer has to put up with Beezlebub, Leviathan, Asmodeus and Mammon all gang up on him and call him girly names.

"Oi Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucy! Heh heh! You've got a right girly name, you has!"
"Shurrup you"
"♪ Lu-cy, Lu-cy, your name is Lu-cy! ♫"
"F'cough, y'bastards!"
"Hey, let's put Lucy in her dress and make her wear a bra!"
"Stoppit!" *blub*
"What? Is girlyboy gonna cry?"
"Stop bullying me :( I'm Satan, Lord of Darkness"
"No, you're Lucy, you're a girlie in a big girls blouse who's so scared of the dark you wet yer frilly knickers in fright!"
"I cast torment upon the wicked!"
"No you don't Lucy - you play with your dollies. Voodoo doll? It's a bloody Barbie in a pink dress, with the full playhouse set. And you subscripe to Barbie's Webpage"
"Stop picking on me or I'll tell me mum!"
"Ooooh, hark at her! She's going to run to mummy! Probably to get some Veet to get her hairy goatlegs all nice and smooth for the boys! Veet for Lucifer? Veet for Lucy's fur, more like! ♪ Hairy tits, hairy teats, Lucy ha-as hairy nips! ♫"
"Waaaaaaaah!"
"♪ Your name is Lu-cy! Your name is Lu-cy! You snog the bo-oys, with yer smelly fa-nny! Ner ner nee ner ner! ♫"

All in all, another fun day in Hell!

Did you ever see the fæces of the children they get so excited...

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I don't want your money, honey (in my JD)...

Who-hoo!

Xym beat Da Man!

Hundreds of squids are mine!

Apart from them what I need to fork out in recompense of past sufference of The Xym!

And I bring the wrong book, so Bansky gets it in the wrong 'un!

Which means interaction with their less-than-helpful Online Banking "Service" upon the morrow.

And after last night card blockage and account resets, I bear little hope.

Oh well.

Off for a bit of pubbage and honey spiced Jacqui D's! Well, Maggie Thatcher's MILF Snatch Hair, which tasted nowt like apple based fermentage.

But who's this on exit! Phwoar! It's mah mad gummybabe!

So Wednesday is now full of babeture lunch datery followed by Midge Urgh!

Finally!

WIN!

I saw a lady and she was naked...

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Xym's done too much, too much to blog...

No blog today, due to a very hecticly crazy weekend!

So busy, and narry a space to breathe, let alone blog!

But a quick recap afore backs to normal Tomorrow.

Friday - 80s night foregone in favour of post pub lock in. The Carly Camel. [Salted/Dry Roasted?] Nuts In A Bowl (or, more accurately, a boobmould). The Quimlashes in cider. The owls are now where they're seen, being betwizt Twin Peaks.

Saturday - Fanboy Judgement of the highest order! Followed by Country & Western punk. Pheremonaly attracting the ladies with curried chip breath. And then WhatACuntage with the cankles and the Pretties and the all-round fun timez.

Sunday - Londinium for manlycures of patriotic emblemation. Shopping Pretties in Quim-Of-Tarts Media Diva Diana Spencer backlit transparancies. And the über-amazeballs cripple-ympics closing ceremony! Marital discord as The Xym consumes Subway nommages, with biscuitty mediation.

Monday - Off to London, for the open-top parade... fuck. We's knackered! And the chihuahua has to come, and it's gonna be packed and shovey, and he'll get crushed as we gets our pickets pocketed and our arses felt up! Sod it - let's go to Shamensbury to get fanny magnets followed by an all-you-can-stuff-in-yer-great-fat-gob Pizza Hut Buffet confusatory situation, followed by a watch of El Parade on the tellybox. And looking at the tellybox, good job we stayed home! Knee deep in cuntfuckers watching dull lorries with people lazily waving, taking photos or stuffing their faces with sandwiches.

But the time for watching greedy athletes feeding their faces has passed. For now it's sibling recovery, and on to see Xym tarted up as a ChavThug in Sportswear, and a letching at a Mini-Vorderman in the Schuh shop! Then, back for zombie assaults, followed by a mental Japanese mooby man shoving teddy bears down his pants. Said cellar dweller turning out to be none other than Vir Cotto!

And with all that going on, and back to work today, chokka with meetings and now sneaking into the only 15 mins available for lunch...

...there's been...

[No, no, no]

No time for updates

[No, no, no]

No time to sit and type

[No, no, no]

No time for eating lunch

[No, no, no]

No Time To Blog

So, no blog today!

Take my hand, Disco Nan...

...coz I'm Wayne Roonie and I hope you's a prozzie!

Ah, the delights of random shufflage with footy and word associative type 'tings, innit!